This week's Mustard Seed begins in Athens. I had a ticket and a three-day wait for the Magic bus that would take me to London. I also had just over two hundred US dollars. I knew Freddy Laker's Skytrain would get me from London to New York for ninety-nine of those dollars. I could only trust God that the balance of my funds would see me from New York to Vancouver and cover any essential incidentals.
I must admit my trust in God arose more through necessity than faith. Not wishing to strain God too greatly, I decided to eschew restaurants and hostels. The more money I had in my pocket when I reached New York, the better God's chance of getting me home. My faith was not getting any stronger as I wandered the streets of Athens that evening.
     As it grew darker and colder, I noticed an orange flickering glow in the distance. As I approached, I saw it rose from an oil drum. Several men stood about it.  I waved at them as I approached. "Kalispera," I said.
     "What do you want?" they responded.
     "May I share your fire?"
   They shuffled over to make room for me. I gleaned from snippets of English that they were unemployed seamen. A bit later on I heard "Abdul," "Lebanon," and "radio officer."
       "Are you speaking of Abdul whose friend died in Lebanon?" I asked.
     It turned out they were. They all knew Abdul. When they found out I was the one who helped him travel from Istanbul to Athens the whole conversation switched to English. It turned out there was quite a community of homeless African sailors in Athens. I was invited to stay with these men in their cave until my Magic Bus departure. There was plenty of fruit, vegetables, and salted fish to share. Men came and went as ships arrived and departed. My second visit to Athens was much different from my first. The circumstances were much better for the first, but the people were far better in the second.
     At the appointed time, I rendezvoused with the Magic Bus, presented my scrap-of-paper ticket, and boarded. I put my bag in the overhead rack and sat. A girl a little older than me arrived a little later and asked to sit beside me. She was so loaded down with bags that she obviously needed help. As I was busy hoisting her backpack and satchel into the overhead rack she snuck into the window seat. She tucked one shopping bag under her seat and another between her feet. I didn't think it fair, but I wasn't about to start our three-and-a-half day journey with a spat.
     I soon learned that she was returning to London from a visit with her mother who had retired in Greece for the better weather and lower cost of living. Liz was a regular round-trip passenger on the Magic Bus. The two bags stowed by her feet were full of sandwiches and pastries. We got out to stretch our legs and mingle with the other passengers whenever the drivers stopped, and her two sacks contained more than enough to feed us both for the whole trip. Liz fed and entertained me the entire way. She also provided detailed instructions to get to Gatwick airport from where the Magic Bus dropped us off, and tips for catching the Skytrain to New York.
     Liz handed me a parcel of food as we said goodbye. I boarded the bus to Victoria Station where I would catch the Gatwick Express train. Once at the airport I rushed over to line up for my Skytrain ticket. Even though the booth wouldn't open for hours, the line was already long. Without Liz's warning I would have arrived later to a sold out flight.
     Once I safely had my ticket I relaxed enough that I could sit and think. I realized I had been so busy following my plan to get to New York that I hadn't worried about the New York to Vancouver leg of my return home. Past New York I had no plan – and, pre-internet, no means of finding the information I needed to make any plan. I decided worrying wouldn't help – I'd just leave that part up to God. It was only then that I began to recognize how great a role God's providence had played in my journey ever since I fled Iran.
      Next week: North America.
                                                             ​God bless

This week's Mustard Seed sees me reach Athens.
I felt back on familiar ground in Istanbul. My sister and I spent several days there during our eastbound journey. I headed toward the minarets of Hagia Sophia. They led me to the Lale Restaurant and Sammy, the waiter we befriended.
Istanbul straddles the European-Asian boundary. It's the funnel that converges travellers in both directions. Lale Restaurant was an essential stop for both the backpack crowd heading east and the carpetbag veterans returning. English was the prevalent language. 
     I marveled again at the difference between the two groups. Slacks, polos, and insecurity versus loose cotton clothes, matted hair, and henna tattoos. I hadn't been all the way to India and my experiences were far from any Beatles' Nirvana, but my time in Asia left its own indelible impression. This time, instead of being an east-bound backpacker who found those others strange, I found both groups foreign.
     As I sat sipping my Turkish coffee I was approached by a Sudanese gentleman. Abdul introduced himself and explained he was a ship's radio officer. During a recent stop in Beirut his friend had been shot and taken to a hospital. He stayed behind to help his friend who eventually died. Abdul spent all his money on his friend's hospital bill and was now desperate to get to Athens where he could catch another ship. He suggested that, if I loaned him seventy-five dollars for the ticket, we could catch a bus that evening. Once in Athens, he would go to the shipping company he worked for, get an advance, and repay me. He promised that if I would help him he would say many prayers for me for the rest of his life.
     Despite Sammy's warning, I felt Abdul was sincere. I agreed to meet him back at Lale Restaurant at seven-thirty. We met,  had a quick coffee, and left for the Beyazit bus depot. I bought two tickets and we boarded the bus to Athens. A young American backpacker arrived a few moments later and sat in a seat ahead of us. He very obviously hadn't bathed recently. Abdul and I moved two rows back. As the bus filled, the seat beside the American remained empty. The bus filled to capacity. The last passenger to board paused looking at the empty seat and the man beside it. He huffed, closed his eyes, and then squeezed himself in between five others in the very back. The bench was clearly not built for six men, but none of the occupants moved to the only empty seat on the bus.
     About three hours later we approached the Greek border. Abdul asked me to let him hold my money. He explained that he would have to show that he had money or he would be turned back at the border. "What about me?" I asked. "Won't I need to show money?"
     "You're white."
​      Trepidatiously, I let him hold my money. The customs agent boarded the bus and asked to see our passports. He stamped them as he went by with nothing more than a quick glance at our faces. He had no questions for any white people – not even the smelly young American. Surely enough, my friend and the two other coloured people on board were led off the bus for further questioning. When they came back Abdul returned my money and thanked me. He said without that money he definitely would have been denied entry. He also told me that, during the course of their interrogation, he learned the fellow detainee sitting five rows ahead of us was a doctor from India and the one across the aisle and two seats behind was an engineer from America.
     About nine hours later we arrived at Station Kifisou in Athens. Abdul would go to his shipping office and I would find accommodations. We agreed to meet at Athena's gate at one o'clock. Abdul headed off and I headed to the tourist brochure rack. I discovered there were several budget hotels near Athena's gate so off I went. The first two hotels I tried had no rooms available. The third was Sammy's Place, owned by an American veteran. I paid for a room for two which would be available for check-in after four o'clock. Task accomplished, I took a leisurely stroll to Athena's gate.
     Abdul was not there by one. By one-twenty I began to worry. By one-thirty I was down right anxious – seventy-five dollars was a huge amount of money in my situation. Abdul did not arrive until two. He apologized and explained that he would sail the next day and had needed to meet the ship's captain. Abdul  repaid his loan and treated me to lunch at a nearby café. We sat and chatted until four before heading to Sammy's Place.
     When we arrived Sammy took one look at Abdul and announced, "He can't stay here."
     "Why not?" I asked.
     "He's black!"
     "You're black!" I replied.
     "I'm the owner," Sammy explained. "If I let him stay here all my guest will leave."
     Neither reason nor protest could dissuade Sammy. He refunded our money and we set off to find a more accommodating accommodation. Eventually we found a small pension run by a seventy-five year old French woman who preferred the Greek climate. The next morning I checked out of the pension as I knew I needed to preserve my funds. Abdul apologized that he didn't get enough of an advance to give me any money. He accompanied me to the youth hostel before we said our farewells. I couldn't afford to stay there either, but I was sure someone there would know of cheap transportation toward London.
     Inside the hostel I found a notice on the bulletin board about the Magic Bus – fifty US dollars, Athens to London non-stop. I jotted down the address. I found 24 Kidathineon Street but it didn't seem to be the Magic Bus office. After searching about the building I found a Magic Bus poster taped to a door. It had a felt-pen arrow pointing up drawn on it. I opened the door to expose a very steep set of stairs. I tried the doors at each level as I climbed only to find them locked. After four stories of  creaky stairs, I saw another Magic Bus poster on the door. I entered, and after a brief discussion handed over fifty dollars to a clerk. The man at the desk wrote my name on a list and handed me a little slip of paper. He told me where and when to find the bus. I had only to survive three days in Athens without spending any money and I'd be on my way.
     Next week: Magic!
                                                          God bless

This weeks Mustard Seed begins to recount how my meagre budget stretched from the Iranian border all the way to Vancouver, BC.
According to the plan my sister and I conceived before leaving home, our van was our means of transportation for a meandering round trip from London to Iran, our lodgings along the way, and the bank in which the funds to see us home from London were locked. Those plans changed. My sister sat safely home, our van sat abandoned in Iran, and I sat on a rock barely free of Iran.
    I took stock of my assets – a small satchel of clothes and toiletries, $365 US currency, and my wits. Even if I could afford them, there were no taxis, bus terminals, train stations or airports anywhere near the Gurbulak border crossing. There was also nowhere within miles to find food or shelter. Staying put was not an option. That left two alternatives, walk or hitchhike. Walking did not preclude hitchhiking so I walked, sticking out my thumb each time I heard a vehicle approach from behind. I walked until well after dark before anyone stopped.
    I greeted the transport truck driver with one of the two Turkish words I knew, merhaba – hello. I have no idea what his long reply meant. I did understand the gesture he finally offered for me to board. I used my other Turkish word, tesekur – thank you. Once underway I asked, "Istanbul?"
    He shook his head and replied, "Ankara."
    Ankara was about three-quarters of the way to Istanbul and, I reasoned, offered better prospects for continuing my journey than did the middle of nowhere. As we went along he learned I spoke English and only two words in Turkish. I learned his two words of English – no English. I introduced myself with gestures and he replied in kind that his name was Ahmet. Completely disregarding our language barrier, he spoke non-stop as the truck rumbled on. He would often peer over with a look that was clearly a search for any sign I might have understood his rambling. Undeterred, he continually pointed out the window at one thing or another and, I suppose, explained something about whatever he had pointed to. All I could do was nod. He had a stash of sandwiches under his seat from which he'd draw and share one occasionally. We'd stop for gas and he'd return with two coffees. I'd offered to pay but he'd decline.
    The next evening we pulled in behind a warehouse. "Ankara," Ahmet said with a big smile and a degree of finality.
   I thanked him and attempted to exit. He shook his head, waved his hand, and patted the dash. I understood he wished me to stay in the truck. I didn't have any urgent plans so I waited. Ahmet disappeared into the warehouse for several minutes before returning with another man. He motioned for me to come out. Ahmet introduced Deniz and, nodding, said, "Istanbul."
    "Merhaba, Deniz," I said as we shook hands.
    Deniz patted his chest with both hands. "I Istanbul," he said. Ahmet motioned for me to follow Deniz.
    Deniz had a bright red truck with yellow flames painted around the grill and blue pompoms strung across inside the top of the windshield. There were lace curtains, tied with tasseled cords, bunched up in the corners. Pictures of, I assume, his family were plastered to the dash, sun visors, and roof of the cab. The austerity of Ahmet's truck hadn't struck me until I found myself amidst the adornments of Deniz'. I was sure the frilly bits were his wife's contribution. I found myself contemplating the décor of Deniz' cab in contrast to the sandwiches under Ahmet's seat.
    Deniz played Turkish music over the radio and sang along in a not unpleasant voice as he drove. We stopped once for gas. He too returned with a second coffee for me, again refusing reimbursement. Despite the strong Turkish coffee and rather lively tunes, my fatigue overtook me. Deniz shook me awake in Istanbul outside the bus terminal. We shook hands firmly. He smiled and waved as I got out. I made it to Istanbul. I was back in Europe without even the smallest dent in my budget.
    "Tesekur, Deniz," I said. I also offered another silent tesekur to Ahmet.

    Next week: Bus Trip.
                                                         God bless

​This week’s Mustard Seed picks up where my van let me down. I was stranded on the far outskirts of a small Iranian town. All I could see was a long dusty road and the all-too-soon deadline for getting my vehicle out of the country.
My van was clearly not going anywhere. Three options remained. Pay the import duties, far beyond my means; go to jail, a non-starter; or flee. Any escape entailed crossing the border before my abandoned vehicle was discovered by the authorities so I opted to proceed with as much haste as I could manage while I planned. I packed what I could into my one sport-bag and began walking, trying to hitch a ride whenever a car approached. My dearth of funds paled to insignificance beside my looming lack of freedom.
     Several hours and a few miles later a taxi pulled over. There was a young fellow from the US in the back. I explained that I couldn’t afford taxi fare – not even half a taxi fare. The passenger beckoned me in anyway. He, too, was headed to the border, his fare was already paid, and I was welcome to join him just for my company. I thanked him profusely and felt a bit of relief until he began telling me his story.
     He was one among the many following The Beatles’ spiritual quest to India and enlightenment. He, also, had purchased a camperised van outside the Australian Embassy in London. I longed to share our common experience but dared not – perhaps the taxi driver was SAVAK. (I must confess here that I was so caught in my escape planning that I don’t remember the fellow’s name, or even whether I heard it.) My fellow traveller’s previous plans ended when his van was forced off the road and over a cliff by an oncoming transport truck driving on the wrong side of the road.
      He was badly bruised but still able to limp his way back to the road. He sat on a rock near his wreck as a Good Samaritan, who had observed the incident and stopped, poked and prodded him. My companion spoke no Farsi. His rescuer spoke a lot of Farsi, but no English. A policeman soon noticed the commotion and stopped. He had a conversation with the helper, nodded understandingly, and bundled my new-found friend into the back of his cruiser.
To my friend’s surprise, rather than driving to a hospital, he was taken to the police station. An English-speaking officer questioned him and looked over his passport. He was then told he would be held in jail until he paid 400,000 rials import duty (over US$15,000). He was in jail for several weeks until his parents were able to raise the tax, a fee for his accommodations in jail, and enough extra to see him home.
     Needless to say, his story terrified me. He went on to describe beatings and firehose baths. He exposed the gap where his two upper left incisors belonged and explained how they broke beneath the gum-line during his crash and were left to painfully fester until they fell out. I abandoned any thought of pleading for mercy at the border.
    My anxiety grew as we approached the border. Was I nearing my freedom or my doom? My benefactor called the driver to stop a few hundred yards from the border. He said, although he trusted me, he didn’t want to risk any complications at the border. I thanked him and set off to cross the border on foot – hopefully!
      I queued up, madly trying to devise a plan. I got to the customs agent still with no plan. I presented my passport, feeling rather ill. He looked inside and found the attached document about my vehicle. “Where’s your car?”
       “Outside,” I said, neglecting to add two hundred miles away.
       “Go over there.” He pointed across the room to a man behind a desk. “He will inspect your car.”
I looked around desperately. Jail loomed before me; freedom lay to my left. I turned and walked as casually as I could toward the exit for cleared travellers, expecting to be accosted at any instant – or shot. I made it out and picked up my pace as I headed for the Turkish customs. I made it to their small shack and presented my passport. I only had one small bag for the agent to check through but he seemed to take forever doing it. I didn’t have faith that international rules of diplomacy held much sway in this outpost. I kept anticipating an irate Iranian border guard dragging me back to an unpleasant fate. Finally I was cleared and waived on.
     I left the Gurbulak border crossing behind, much relieved, still a free man. I was in the middle of nowhere, with two-and-a-half continents plus an ocean between me and home, but at least my biggest hurdle was behind me. I had my freedom, one small bag of clothes, three hundred and sixty-five dollars, and my wits to see me forward.
 
      Next week: Beyond Frugal Traveller.
                                                              God bless.
P.S. The above image is a newer construction but still shows the desolation of the Gurbulak border crossing. In 1979 there was only a small brick shack at the border, a house for the guards a few feet away, and not much else for several miles.

​This week’s Mustard Seed follows my changing status in early 1978.
Sharing a house with several fellow teachers also provided a reliable return address for correspondence. I began hearing from friends and family back home in Vancouver, Canada. I was delighted to read that my friend Greg planned to join me. I was equally relieved that my friend Danny wouldn’t be visiting. They were from different sides of the track. Greg asked for my employer’s contact information and travel advice. Danny offered solace for the lack of pornography in Iran.
     Since the Playboy pictures Danny's letter claimed were enclosed weren't, I gleaned that, not only had the Iranian police seized and searched my van, they were examining my correspondence. Although definitely not upset by the absence of said images, I was alarmed at the degree of surveillance. I also suspected the incident was meant more to caution me than to protect my moral integrity because, although literature of Playboy’s genre was banned in Iran, images of naked ladies were still readily available. There were many creative ways to circumvent the restrictions; I uncovered one ruse in the course of my weekly trip to market as the designated household shopper. My upstairs room mates had a TV and VCR. Although I was never invited to the screenings, a list of movies, to be acquired as available, always accompanied their shopping list. I was amused to find all the original jackets; even of such standards as Cinderella, Mary Poppins, and Snow White; replaced with pornographic versions. I never found out if the tapes themselves had been modified.
     Close scrutiny by the police made me more aware of my surroundings and, ironically, more aware of subversive rumours that grew in both content and volume. A general unrest became apparent and I began hearing of protests. I was increasingly cautious of what I said to whom.
     A one-week holiday approached. I needed to take my van out of the country to avoid onerous import duties so I planned a return trip to Turkey. I had intended to invite someone along to keep company and share expenses but two thoughts kept nagging at me:
          1) Can they be trusted? Might they be under cover SAVAK agents? If they're known to be SAVAK,                             will those who know begin to suspect me?
          2) If they are to be trusted, is it fair to subject them to the scrutiny I’m under? Will they themselves                         become suspect by associating with me?
     I completely nixed the idea of a travel companion when someone, who on the surface had no reason to know, warned me I would be arrested if I did not get my van out by the fast-approaching deadline recorded in my passport.
     On my final day of work before our break, I got home, loaded my bags, ate dinner, and headed south. I turned west at Qazvin and pulled over in a safe spot to rest.
     I woke refreshed in the morning, brewed coffee, ate some cereal, and continued on my way. I made it almost to lunch when my van stopped running. I got out and inspected the engine. When I opened the hatch I found both ducts meant to direct air from vents in the side of the van to the cooling fins of the cylinder heads were lying loose on the floor of the engine compartment. I reasoned one loose duct might be an accident, two were treachery. Paranoia set in.
     I looked around to see if I was being followed. There was no one in sight. Off to the left a little ahead there was an auto wrecking compound. I pushed and steered my van into the yard next to a group of rusting hulks. I removed and buried the license plates. Taking my cues from nearby vehicles, I rolled down the windows and dispersed some of the contents around the yard. Satisfied with my van’s disguise, I sat down on the door sill to contemplate.
 
     Next week: Where to From Here – and How?
                                                                     God bless.